


var lath vir suledin

by themosthappy



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Friends With Benefits, Infidelity, Multiple Wardens, Recreational Drug Use, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 08:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7093948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themosthappy/pseuds/themosthappy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Translation: our love has the strength to withstand this path that you walk).</p><p>“Maybe if you were here. If we had stayed longer, searched more, we could've found you. You could've been a warden.” You picture it, all the shems at Ostagar afraid of you and Tamlen. The elven murderers, vicious and cold, and at night you roll in the blood of your enemies and each other-</p><p>“No,” Tamlen says, sharp, cutting off the fantasy. You look at him, surprised. “That isn't me. You know it isn't.” He leans over, touches your face. “I can't go until you let me go.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	var lath vir suledin

**Author's Note:**

> "and i know you have a heavy heart; i can feel it when we kiss,  
> so many men stronger than me have thrown their backs out trying to lift it,  
> but me, i'm not a gamble—you can count on me to split:  
> the love i sell you in the evening, by the morning, won't exist.
> 
> you're looking skinny like a model with your eyes all painted black;  
> you just keep going to the bathroom, always say you'll be right back.  
>  _well, it takes one to know one, kid, i think you've got it bad_ ,  
> but what's so easy in the evening, by the morning, is such a drag.
> 
> i've got a flask inside my pocket, we can share it on the train,  
>  _if you promise to stay conscious i will try and do the same_.  
>  _we might die from medication, but we sure killed all the pain_ ,  
> but what was normal in the evening, by the morning seems insane."  
> —lua, bright eyes.
> 
> i think mahariel and eggman have a lot in common in terms of love lives (tamlen dying/leaving lavellan behind), which made me think about mahariel and solas smoking some elfroot and watching the shem world burn. it spiraled from there. i also used this to practice switching tense, and if it comes off as awkward, i apologize.
> 
> for context, there are five wardens in this version instead of one: f!mahariel, m!tabris, f!surana, f!cousland, and f!aeducan. after the events of origins, mahariel becomes co-commander with surana until surana takes off and leaves. tabris is mahariel's second in command. cousland becomes queen alongside alistair, and aeducan becomes a paragon. the inquisitor is f!lavellan who romances solas and tries to take his side in trespasser.

She calls them names, but in her thoughts she is chasing him through the forests, laughing.

(“Keep up, Atheva! Or maybe you’ve just gotten slow-”

“You’ll be eating those words in a minute, actually.”

“You do seem to do a lot of eating lately...ow! Not the hair, lethallan!”)

———

"Why do you scowl like that?" The runaway Chantry sister asks, eyes wide. The girl probably prays to the Maker for their safety, asks a god to guide her blade instead of her own strength. That’s what Atheva has learned in her time here. Not goodness, nor kindness, nor charity or mercy or any of the things that the Maker supposedly smiles upon, but instead, her own strength. Instead, cruelty. Anger at what was taken. A will to fight the darkspawn and everything else (the thing that stole him away from you).

It’s this thought that puts the bitterness on her tongue. “Not all of us left home willingly.”

The girl withdraws and that’s the end of that. Atheva glances up, and several pairs of eyes dart away, pretending not to see.

“If you have something to say to me,” she announces, loud, “...don’t.”

No one asks her any more questions.

———

Her sword cuts through a genlock’s throat like butter, and something in her pangs. _It would be safer to use arrows, lethallan. Let the shems take the fall for you_. It’s what the clan would have said. What he might have said, once.

“Move forward,” she shouts to the others, all stood in awe, “we have a long way to go before this is finished.”

———

The Cousland girl cries nightly in her tent. They all pretend they don’t notice, turn their faces away or block their ears, and Atheva almost feels bad for the child. She’s heard the rumor: entire family slaughtered, forced to swear an oath and sell a sword that really isn’t hers. She’s a wet dream for any Chantry member, that’s for sure.

Atheva knows why they turn their heads away (how could they ever understand the pain, they don’t want to) and sometimes she joins them, pretends she doesn't understand what it is to lose your family. Once upon a time, she was like Grace Cousland. She’d never thought beyond it all, where things might have led. She had been the girl in the forest, sunlight in her hair and a bloody grin, and her only concerns had been the clan and **him**. She dreams too often that he is here, in the camp; a grey warden like her, beautiful and whole again.

She should have known, seen the skeletons and known-

———

Zephyr Tabris is the same foolhardy boy that her lethallin should have grown up to be, or just about. This boy does not have sunlight in his hair. His skin is darker, he cracks too many jokes and he gets along with shems a little too well (he is a slave, hers was not). Still, he is so close to the real thing that she can practically taste it. It burns. Atheva is not a foolish girl; she keeps away from the fire and saves herself the pain.

But fire is prone to spread, even she knows that.

“Hey, Atheva! What did the dwarf say about the elves' cooking?”

“What.”

She internalizes her groan and keeps walking. Zephyr Tabris jogs along beside her, desperately trying to keep pace with her long, determined stride.

“Mm! Da- _lish_!”

He’s **definitely** the same foolhardy boy, then. She can hear Alistair laughing a few feet back.

———

The temple has gone too far.

She reaches out to Tamlen's image, throat thick with tears, but he disappears like dust, a thousand little pieces into the wind. Arms drag her away, closer to the sacred ashes, and her sorrow drifts into carnage. _I_ _will have blood for this_. But even the blood of the Archdemon is not enough.

———

With Grace and Alistair established as queen and king, she feels a weight off her shoulders. Tabris still tags along wherever she goes, but Atheva doesn’t mind so much. The shems call her Warden-Commander and Arlessa and Ser, now, titles she once tried to shrug off. These days they fit her like armor, protecting her from the things her sword and her bravery cannot.

They’re passing through the deep roads on an expedition, Zephyr jabbering along to Velanna about the cruelty of humans (the two get along like two peas in a pod, that’s for sure) when they pass by a lonely anvil. Atheva doesn’t plan to pay it much attention, since she is not a simpleton nor a child, but Oghren.

Oghren stares at that anvil like it’s Branka come back at last, and Atheva knows the look a mile away. The longing for what is very much lost.

“Are you alright,” she asks anyway, like she isn’t perfectly aware. Zephyr has fallen silent as the grave; when Velanna tries to speak, he shoots her a look that says _not now_. For the first time in her whole life, Velanna shuts her mouth and keeps quiet. Atheva wonders if they know something she doesn’t.

Oghren makes a noise like he’s dying. “Look, warden, I know she’s gone. I **know** it. But sometimes I...ah, sod it.”

Her breath catches. Memories flood. Surana looks contemplative.

(No sword nor title can protect you from thoughts).

“I understand.” The unspoken, _me too_ , hangs in the air.

They do the only thing they can. They move on.

———

Commander Surana receives a letter in the mail.

Commander Atheva’s not the sort to snoop, but the private gets their letters mixed up and she’s half way through skimming it before she realizes.

Surana walks into the meeting room, and Atheva tosses the letter onto the table, watching it slide across. It smells like Antivan leather.

“You got a letter.”

Surana’s eyes dart to the paper, then back to Atheva. She can’t read Surana's expressions. She doesn’t care to. “It’s already open.”

“I thought it was for me.” She stands and makes it all the way to the doorway before she pauses. “You’re very lucky to have your love. I envy you.” She slams the door behind her.

———

(“You are so angry,” Tamlen says to you in a dream. You're rolling up leaves full of elfroot, tired and needing release. You know it isn't real. You don't care. “It hurts me, even now, to see you so angry. Please, lethallan. Let your heart heal.”

“I can't,” you say back, your voice choked and raw. You're younger here, in this sunlit forest. Birds chirp, happy. A few feet away, the others are setting up camp, and Merrill is eyeing the both of you. “Maybe if you were really here. If we had stayed longer, searched more, we could've found you. You could've been a warden.” You picture it, all the shems afraid of you and Tamlen. The elven murderers, vicious and cold, and at night you roll in the blood of your enemies and each other-

“No,” Tamlen says, sharp. You look at him, surprised. “That isn't me. You know it isn't.” He leans over, touches your face. “I can't go until you _let_ me go.”

“I can't let you go,” you answer, and the tears come hard and fast. “I can't, Tamlen, don't ask me to.”

He doesn't pull you closer. He looks at you, his brow drawn in sympathy, and says, “let me go.”)

———

Commander Atheva Mahariel wakes in her quarters, huffing. She curls into herself. She doesn't let go.

Instead, she pads down the hall to where Zephyr sleeps, and explains.

(“You really want to go after the Inquisition? After what they've done to the Orlesian wardens?” He sounds angry, even whispering. You shrug, careful to avoid getting candle wax on your fingers.

“Perhaps we can amend their view of us.”)

———

Inquisitor Lavellan welcomes Atheva with open arms, thrilled to have a fellow Dalish among her ranks. Atheva returns the sentiment with a vicious hug while Zephyr looks on, shocked at the display of affection from this cold woman he's come to know (family is family). Behind the Inquisitor stands a prim man, who looks Atheva in the eyes and _sees_.

“Warden-Commander, this is Solas,” the inquisitor says, her smile turning tight. Atheva looks at him evenly, pretending to be unaffected. “Please be civil,” she says to Solas, who sniffs and extends a dainty hand. Atheva grips it.

“Commander.”

“Solas.” Atheva doesn't trust him. After the ceremony, she seeks him out immediately.

———

They both get outrageously drunk before they fuck, grunting in each other's ears. It's the only thing that makes his cock in her cunt bearable.

Well. Not the only thing.

This becomes a habit. If his sweet-eyed Inquisitor knows something, she does not let on. Once, Atheva catches them kissing on the Inquisitor's balcony when she comes to return a book, Solas' leg jammed up between her thighs, and Atheva's vicious laughter startles them both away from each other. It's too familiar a sight, and she feels bitter (better?). Solas looks at her accusingly. She looks back.

(“I was jealous,” you tell him later, his fingers between your teeth as he fucks into you. You bite down hard. He grunts.

“I don't return—ah, _so tight_ —your feelings,” he sneers, rolling his hips, and you let out a noise that's half-laugh, half-moan. You lean up into his face, feeling hateful, feeling Tamlen's ghost in the room. Feeling his confusion, and pain, and envy.

“I wasn't jealous because I care for  _you_ , ass,” you snarl, raking your nails up his back before you sigh, “oh, shit, up, _up, like that_ -” He hums with pleasure-pain, but consistently manages to miss the right spot by 'accident'. You let out a little angry noise, roll on top of him, and ride him vindictively, pressing his cock into that sweet spot until you both come hard. If he understands what you mean, he doesn't let on.)

———

(The forest dream again. Tamlen's eyes are red rimmed, and the rolled elfroot lays next from him, forgotten. Fuck, you just wanna smoke.

“How could you,” he whispers, hushed, and you snap back, “I thought you wanted me to let go.”

“You're not letting go,” he accuses, rising to the bait like he always did, “you're just using him. To get at me. To pretend it's us. I heard you say my name, once.” He curls his knees up into his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around his legs as if he wants to be smaller. Any argument you had before dies in your throat. “I want to be free, Atheva,” he says, sounding so, so small. “I want to be free.”

“You could be, if you truly wished.” Solas pushes out from the treeline before you can answer, leaning against his staff. You glare at him.

“This isn't yours. You _have_ yours, let me have mine.” You reach for Tamlen's wraith-like hand, hold it tight. Sparks shoot in your gut at the feel of his palm, calloused against yours. He squeezes your fingers, and for the moment, you're on the same side.

“I know you think you are bound here,” he tells Tamlen, ignoring you. There's a kindness in his voice that confuses you, and an edge to his presence here. He is not like you or Tamlen. “That this is your safe place. But you are not. You _are_ free, little spirit. Leave when you like." He extends an arm. "Nothing binds you anymore, not even love.”

You cannot deny the burst of pride you feel when Tamlen finally looks up at him and his glare is twice as sour as yours. “Do you think she's fucking you because she **loves** you?”

Solas shakes his head, unaffected by both your jabs. He looks at the two of you like Keeper Marethari did once: with all the wisdom of an adult dealing with precocious, vicious children. You feel so, so young. “I do not. Just as I am not _fucking_ your lethallan because I hold affection for her.” He looks at you, now, and says, “two can play at this game. You, too, are a replacement for someone I hold dear. And every second you keep him, you keep him in chains. I know this. I am guilty too.”)

Atheva wakes, teeth chattering. Somewhere in the drafty room she's taken up in, a door shuts.

———

And after Corypheus is taken care of, Solas disappears. Just like that. Inquisitor Lavellan cries and cries until finally, one day, “Mahariel, could you accompany me-”

———

Atheva finds him, a year or so after. Lavellan is on the ground when the warden-commander arrives, unconscious and missing her faulty arm. Solas seems to be gone, but Mahariel knows something about that; she knows things are never as they seem. She gestures for the Bull and Zephyr to carry the Inquisitor back to camp, and Vivienne looks on, brow notched. She doesn't acknowledge her, or anybody. She waves them all on until it's just her, alone in the rubble and stone.

“She will be alright,” Solas says, stepping out of the shadows. It's as if he's convincing himself. “I saved her from certain death."

"There are things worse than death."

He ignores the quip. "How is your little spirit?” This, he says with more venom.

“Gone.”

He's taken aback. “Gone?”

Atheva nods. “I sent him on.” Remembering what Lavellan had said about the Dread wolf and godhood, she pushes the memory at him, curious to see if he can read her mind.

(For all his pleas to leave, he looks desperate not to go. Tears streak his golden face. “Please, Atheva, don't-”

“I love you,” you tell him, holding back your own tears as the green forest melts around you, “and that's why I'm doing this. Go. Be free.”

“No! No, please, don't-”

“I will never forget. Never.” With some effort, you wake yourself, and Tamlen fades.)

Solas gasps, gently, and Atheva watches the memory pass before his eyes. When his gaze comes back into focus, he scuffs the ground with his staff, then his shoe. He looks almost bashful. “It was the right thing to do.” He's not just talking about Tamlen. For a moment, it's just the two of them, standing there, relating. The feeling makes her remember what she originally came here to do.

Digging through her pack, she pulls out the leaves she'd picked on the way here, beginning to roll up the elfroot. When Solas sees what she's doing, he snorts. “Another Dalish tradition, I presume.”

“Look, you wanna get high or not?”

———

(You both end up with your legs dangling over the edge of the cliff, looking out over the valley as you smoke your respective rolls. Solas lights them with a small flick of his fingers and presses yours into your mouth, clinical. Your head is pleasantly lazy, and it takes away from the pain in your chest, which hurts like the Maker could never dream. You think about Tamlen, lost in the fade forever. Shooting arrows with Andruil like he always said he would.

Beside you, Solas sits somewhat awkwardly, huffing his own elfroot and looking determined. You think about what he said to Lavellan, how he plans to destroy the shem world for the sake of his people. You relate to that, too, to want to burn the world down for your loved ones. His sharp face is soft and open, the walls between you temporarily dropped. His stare goes a thousand yards.

“Solas?” He takes a long draw.

“Mm?”

“Burn them all.”

A pause between you. He looks at you, then looks back out over the canyon. He nods.

“I will.”

“Good.” You smoke.)  



End file.
